


Cyanide and Astroglide

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas comes early for Mulder when he and Scully are enlisted to investigate a series of suspicious deaths in the gay porno community.  For Skinner, however, the situation nearly drives him into the waiting arms of the Jehovah's Witness faith.  He still totally bangs Mulder, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cyanide and Astroglide

The man on the screen was tall, ruggedly handsome, muscular, and possessed  
of nary a tan line. With short dark hair, piercing brown eyes, and long,  
long legs, he was a paragon of masculinity. His sizable erection was almost  
incidental. Almost. He stared back at Mulder defiantly, as if to say "What  
are you going to do about it?" The agent gazed at the picture before him,  
as if something new would occur to him that had not in the last fifteen  
minutes, willing it to do so. No such luck. _Nice pecs, though..._

"Did you tell Bob what you wanted the overhead projector for before  
you brought it down here, Mulder?"

He started, almost tumbling off the edge of his desk. Scully stood in  
the doorway of the office, arms crossed over her chest, one fine eyebrow  
delicately raised. He gave her a nervous smile. "Tell me what's weird about  
this guy, Scully."

"He's naked," she said promptly.

Mulder blinked. "What?"

"That's a garage, right?"

"Yeah."

"He's supposed to be a mechanic?"

"Yeah."

"Mulder, if my mechanic looked like that, I wouldn't have taken all  
those automotive courses last summer."

The agent sighed heavily. "You never used to be so depraved, Scully."

"Pot and kettle." She crossed to the screen. Mulder smirked. A few steps  
closer and the model's erection would be superimposed onto her face.

"Who is this?"

"Peter Dyck."

"You're joking."

"It's a very popular name in the Mennonite community, Scully."

She shot him a look. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

"In the last six months, Peter Dyck has appeared in over fifteen adult  
films."

"And?"

"Of the forty-odd actors he's appeared with in that time, twelve have  
died under highly unusual circumstances."

"Forget it, Mulder."

"What?"

"We are not investigating murders in the porn industry."

"Scully, I don't think--"

"What am I supposed to tell my family? We'll all get together for Independence  
Day. Bill can tell us about the new promotion and life on the base, Mom  
can tell us about her tulips and the squirrels in the backyard, and I'll  
pipe up with how you and I went after Horst Buttman, scourge of the adult  
film circuit."

"You know, I heard he can suck his own--"

"I don't want to hear about it, Mulder. Forget it."

Mulder sipped his coffee and considered another line of attack. Scully  
was getting red in the face looking at Peter Dyck. And the tamest shot  
he had of the guy was one of him still wearing his artfully torn cutoffs.  
Unfortunately, they were worn down around his knees, and he was jacking  
off in the shot. He switched off the projector. "Scully. Listen."

"Fine."

"The only victims so far are men who have appeared in films with him.  
Men who had sex with him in those films. Each of the victims died within  
a week of wrapping the movie."

She smirked. "That's got to be a blow to his ego."

"What do you say?"

"I say it's not an X-File."

"Scully--"

"Where's the paranormal aspect, Mulder? Abnormal, fine. Paranormal,  
forget it. What you're talking about is not some... _curse_."

He grinned. "I knew it!"

"You knew what?"

"I wasn't even thinking of something like that, Scully."

"Do I look stupid to you? You thought that salmonella outbreak in the  
cafeteria was a curse."

"I'm going to bring this to Skinner."

She rolled her eyes. "I guess we fly out tomorrow, then."

"What are you trying to say, Scully?"

"Forget it."

"Are you implying I might use my friendship with the Assistant Director  
to gain leverage with my 302s?"

"Your _friendship_?"

"How would you prefer I labeled it?"

Scully glared at him. "Where's the studio?"

"Washington State. Seattle."

"_Swell_. Give me the file." He handed it to her, fighting a smile  
all the way. "I'm going home," she said. "You want to come over for pizza  
or something?"

He was about to agree when he remembered. "I can't. I have a thing with  
Skinner tonight."

"A thing. You're all double-talk these days. I don't know about you  
anymore, Mulder--"

"Not that you ever did," they said in unison.

"Good night," she said.

Some of the irritation was gone from her eyes. He knew how to take care  
of that. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Oh, Scully?"

"What?"

"Don't forget to bring your Wellies."

She looked about a heartbeat away from making an obscene gesture, but  
she was a woman of morals (on that occasion, at least) and she refrained.

Mulder watched her thoughtfully as she retreated from the office, thinking  
as he listened to the clicking of her heels down the hallway. Slowly it  
came to him. He grinned. How had she ever heard of Horst Buttman?

Mulder sat down at his desk and flipped through the photographs in his  
folder. One man had drowned in the swimming pool at his apartment complex.  
Another had died of a drug overdose. A third had been hit by a truck while  
jaywalking across a deserted street. Mulder turned the projector back on  
and stared at the image before him once again. What was it about this guy,  
anyway? Why had his costars only gotten around to dying in the last six  
months? He'd appeared in dozens of films before that, some of which Mulder  
himself had seen and enjoyed. Yet, to his knowledge, the very attractive  
stars of such video classics as _Anal Andy's American Disco_ and _The  
Boys of Bonerville_ remained very much alive, for better or worse.

Peter Dyck. What a winner. To think there were innocent men wandering  
the planet who had not chosen that name as their own. Everybody knew a  
guy like that. Mulder himself had been in debating club with a guy named  
Randy Cox. Still, you could forget all of that when you looked at the beautiful  
man on the screen. Mulder was no stranger to the look of beautiful naked  
men, but he knew of only one that could even hope to compare to this one,  
and fortunately for him, that body was his, in spirit if not in fact.

Squinting, he tried to imagine Walter in Peter Dyck's place, perched  
on a big, stripped tire, wearing nothing but a pair of yellow work boots  
and some white socks. Walter of course didn't have a comparable tan, but  
this was Mulder's fantasy and he was determined to do whatever he wanted  
with it. Would he be wearing his glasses? No. His features softened when  
he couldn't focus on anything enough to want to glare at it. Legs spread  
apart, one hand on his cock, the other teasing a nipple, oh yeah... he  
could get into that. Throw the head back a little to expose the neck...

"I was about to be pissed at you for doing this on company time, but  
I see it's after five, so I've decided to be pissed at you for doing it  
at all."

_Who _isn'_t going to walk in on me with this fucking guy up  
there today?_ "Walter! I was--"

"You were what, Agent Mulder?"

"I was--" He looked up at the screen, raked his hair, and turned to  
face the AD. "Fuck it. I was using it to help me work up the proper amount  
of outrage for my editorial in the _Catholic Times_."

"Outrage?"

"What do you want?" he said testily. There was nothing he could say  
to rectify this situation.

Walter shut the door behind him and locked it. "I want you to tell me  
why you borrowed Bureau equipment to look at... that," he said, advancing  
on the agent.

'Uh... don't ask, don't tell?" Mulder backed away. _Not in the office,  
Walter, come on..._

"Wrong organization." He was almost on Mulder now.

"You're not going to buy that _Catholic Times_ thing, hey?"

"No." The AD pushed him against the wall.

"Walter--" Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off by his lover's  
mouth, hard and insistent against his own. The AD ground their hips together,  
his tongue thrusting into Mulder's mouth, his body pinning Mulder like  
ten tons of cement. The man could be a boulder when he had his mind set  
on it.

Mulder struggled frantically, shoving at his chest, trying to throw  
him off. _Cameras... bugs... rude secretaries... oh God, that feels good..._  
He sucked on his lover's tongue before he even had time to think about  
it, his hands snaking around to cup Walter's ass firmly against him.

"Walter," he croaked, tearing his mouth away. The AD tried to recapture  
it, but Mulder was determined, sort of. "Walter, listen. I was looking  
at it for a case."

Walter snorted. "There's nothing paranormal about that, Mulder," he  
said, pointing disdainfully at the man on the screen. "It's an implant."

Mulder told him about the police reports and his own findings. "I think  
there's more to it than coincidence."

"Mm-hm. Tell me, Agent Mulder, does your sudden interest in this case  
have anything to do with the fact that I'm going to be in Seattle myself  
all this week?"

"How can you even ask me that?" he said, all indignation.

Walter's eyes darkened. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't--"

"Look at the ass on that guy!" Walter blinked. Mulder started laughing.

"Fuck you, Mulder."

"Oh, come on. What's it going to take to get a smile out of you?"

"If you knew what was going through my head right now, you wouldn't  
be asking questions like that."

He sighed. "Are we going to Seattle, or not?"

"All right. I'll take care of it. But this is not a holiday, Mulder."

"I'm aware of that. We still have the little matter of twelve dead actor  
slash waiters to look into."

"A matter which I'm sure under the circumstances is of grave personal  
importance to you."

He pulled on his overcoat and shut off his lamp. "Scully thinks I'm  
using the wily lure of sex to force you to do my bidding."

"Little does she realize."

"Disappointed?"

Walter said nothing, leading Mulder from the room and shutting off the  
overhead light. Mulder was beginning to get concerned until the AD leaned  
over and casually pinched his ass on their way out of the building. Mulder  
jumped.

"Sometimes I think you're possessed," he said. Walter only smiled.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


"Nice place," Mulder said, sipping his coffee. "What do you think the  
serial killer to child molester ratio is?"

He and Scully stood in the main parking lot of a vast apartment complex  
collectively known as Sylvan Gardens. There wasn't a plant in sight, apart  
from a weird, shrublike organism sprouting large yellow flowers that dotted  
the front of each building. The buildings themselves were never going to  
appear in Estates International; they were strictly disco-era dwellings,  
covered in pebbles and shards of glass, the wrought iron of the balconies  
painted brown and badly peeling. In total, fifteen buildings made up the  
complex. It was the largest of its kind Mulder had ever seen outside the  
pamphlets for "retirement communities" that he found in the men's room  
at the Hoover building every now and then.

"I would have thought this would look like a step up for you, Mulder."

"I resent that, Scully. My building may be weird, but it's clean."

That the same could be said of him was a fact that did not escape his  
notice. At least Scully had the courtesy not to mention it.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No. Let's do it."

Together they headed for block 2 of the complex, situated toward the  
back, facing the highway. The noise was terrific. It was the kind of neighborhood  
in which the drivers of eighteen-wheelers blasted their horns at pretty  
girls unfortunate enough to be walking by. The kind of neighborhood that  
housed a lot of young guys driving jacked up Oldsmobiles with horns that  
played _La Cucaracha_ for the same purpose. Anyone with a suite facing  
that highway would have to be either deaf, insane, or away from home a  
lot. Realistically, Mulder supposed Peter Dyck could fit any of those categories.

Scully scanned the buzzer list until she found his name. Looking one  
last time at Mulder, she pressed the button by Dyck's name. They waited.  
Mulder pressed it. Scully raised a brow. After another moment, they were  
assailed with the sound of Gloria Estefan blaring through the tinny speaker,  
singing _1-2-3-4_.

"What?" Came a voice.

"Peter Dyck?" Scully said.

"What?"

"Go ahead, Scully," Mulder urged. "Shout it."

She glared at him. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI.  
May we come in?"

"FBI?"

"That's right."

"Fuck you." The man on the other end cut them off.

Mulder looked at her. "A little fame can just _ruin_ a guy."

"We can't just leave, Mulder."

"We're not going to leave, Scully. We're going to do what countless  
law enforcement officials have no doubt done before us." He leaned down  
and squinted at the buzzer list. "We call the manager."

After a little confusion with buildings and identification, they reached  
the manager and were admitted to the building. The interior was by no means  
more impressive than the exterior except as a possible future location  
of an episode of _Cops_. Where the walls weren't dotted with holes,  
they were dotted with drywall marks from repaired holes. The carpets were  
stained but clean, if a little old. Each suite bore what looked to be new  
brass numbers, possibly the only improvement this building had ever seen.  
The agents paused outside Dyck's door. Gloria Estefan had been replaced  
by Stevie Wonder in the time it had taken them to get here.

"What do you think?"

"You want to be good agent, or bad agent?"

"Why change the routine now?"

Mulder clutched his heart with one hand and knocked on the door with  
the other. After a second, the door swung open to reveal the man whose  
naked body Mulder and Scully had been arguing over mere days before. He  
was somewhat less impressive in the flesh, his eyes dulled by what smelled  
like enough hooch to kill a rhinoceros, that finely honed body covered  
by an open red and black silk robe, a pair of blue and white striped bikini  
briefs, and a matching pair of socks. He looked like he hadn't shaved in  
days. His hair stood up in a number of places.

"Peter Dyck?" Mulder spared Scully having to say it again.

"What?" _This is going to be a short conversation. I should have listened  
more carefully to his dialogue_.

"My name is Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully, we're with the FBI."

"You got ID?"

"Yes. Here." He flashed his badge at Dyck. "We'd like to have a few  
words with you. If that's convenient."

"It's convenient," he said with a bitter smile. "It's very fucking convenient.  
Welcome," he said with a sweep of his arm. Scully hung back, so Mulder  
led the way, stepping over what appeared to be a dead cat in the hallway  
and trying not to stare at the decor.

In Mulder's experience, there were two schools of thought as regarded  
home decorating. Some people tried for a more catalogue-fresh look, tasteful,  
coordinated. Something anyone might find comfortable. Some people decorated  
their homes as an extension of the bedroom they had when they still lived  
with their parents. Peter Dyck was such a man. Though the carpet was admittedly  
not attractive, Dyck had somehow come to the conclusion that a tiger-striped  
rug might be a better choice. His furniture was all done in black lacquer.  
A Garfield telephone glowed malevolently from his end table. The portraits  
on the living room wall were original Nagels, if Mulder was any judge,  
and he had never truly cared for the man's work, but in this apartment  
it went from the merely uninspired to McDonald's quality artwork. The state  
of the apartment itself was nothing impressive, either. There wasn't an  
ashtray to be found that wasn't piled high with cigarette butts. A pile  
of beer cans by the patio window looked a little like a toppled castle.  
Potato chip shrapnel dotted the carpet. _No job is too small for your  
Dirt Devil_.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"What have you got?"

There was the sound of a refrigerator opening as Mulder watched, with  
some amusement, while Scully looked for a place to sit. _If she had a  
toilet seat cover..._

"Hawaiian Punch, Kool Aid, Sunny Delight..." She shot Mulder a look  
that he was unable to deflect. He wondered how many more things Dyck and  
he had in common.

"Coffee?" She offered.

"Coffee I got."

"That would be fine. Thank-you."

Obviously not concerned about his power bill, Dyck had both the television  
and the stereo going. A rerun of _Magnum P.I._ was on, with the volume  
turned down. He had done them the courtesy of turning down the stereo somewhat,  
but the strains of _Ma Cherie Amour_ could still be heard.

Mulder slouched in his chosen chair and looked around with some interest.  
This was not how he would have imagined the apartment of the star of _3rd  
Cock From The Sun_ to look. Or, just maybe, it was.

In a telepathic moment typical of the agents, both Mulder and Scully's  
eyes fixed on a dead bird on the patio at the same instant. _Maybe that  
cat's not dead after all_. Mulder glanced at Scully. She was on to him,  
no mistake. And the look of dread on her face said it all. She was going  
to be hearing about this on the drive back to the hotel.

"You know, Scully," he said now, "_Stud Puppy_ magazine says he's  
looking for a relationship."

"Mulder, you--"

"Coffee," Dyck said, returning with a pair of mugs. "You want anything  
in it?"

"I'm good," Mulder said. "Scully?"

"I'm fine, thank-you."

Dyck seated himself next to Scully on the sofa, apparently untroubled  
by his state of undress. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Dyck, we're here to talk to you about a series of unusual deaths  
that appear to be related to your recent film work."

"Jesus Christ. Am I a suspect?"

"Right now, we're just looking for some answers," Scully said. "Each  
of the deaths took place in the last six months. Has something happened  
in that time that could have triggered something like this?"

Dyck let out a breath and raked both hands through his hair. "Shit,  
I don't know. I'm not-- I been having kind of an extended party these last  
few days, you know what I mean?"

"What have you been celebrating?" Mulder said.

"I'm looking on the bright side," he said. "I get a couple of weeks  
I don't have to suck any dick. Excuse me." He rose slowly from the sofa  
and stared out at the highway. "I was in the middle of shooting a movie  
when I heard Fred died. _Dick Smack 7_."

"Catchy," Mulder said. "You're referring to Fred Hotte?" Scully looked  
at him. He shrugged.

"Yeah. Somebody spiked his JD." He turned to face the agents, his face  
a mask of exquisite pain. "Some guys don't want to work with me anymore.  
They think I got the kiss of death or something."

"Surely they must realize--" Scully started.

"I was in the middle of the big love scene with Harry Harder when I  
got the call. Beautiful set-up. He walked off the set. It came down to  
him or me. I got a holiday. Shit."

"Mr. Dyck, the first suspicious death occurred shortly after you finished  
production on a movie called _Red, White, and Blue Balls_," Scully  
said. Do you recall anything unusual taking place during filming?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. What do you call weird when  
you work in this business?"

"Try to imagine it from my perspective, then, Mr. Dyck," Mulder said.

He blinked. _Man, that's brilliant, Mulder_. "Okay, from Agent  
Scully's."

"We lost a guy," Dyck said suddenly.

"Someone passed away during filming?"

"Fuck, no. Probably wished he did, though. Alex Moorcock."

"How do you mean you lost him?"

"He plays hockey in his off time. Pick-up games, street, ice, he doesn't  
care. We were shooting in this abandoned warehouse in Vancouver, and he  
and some of the crew were going at it between takes, outside. Nobody had  
any gear. He took a ball right where it counts. Lost a testicle."

Mulder winced. It wasn't something he wanted to experience, but neither  
would it turn him homicidal. He didn't think so, anyway. "What happened  
to him?"

"Well, there was no way he could finish the movie, right? And then he  
couldn't get it up anymore. He was in therapy and shit, never did him any  
good. I heard he's working at Target, now. Selling shoes or some shit."

"Does he have any reason to hold this injury against you?"

"No. I don't play hockey. I got to protect my assets, you know? It's  
not like I got all kinds of work experience I can fall back on if I lose  
one of my nuts like him."

_I guess nobody's telling Moorcock he can still lead a full life_.

"Did anything else happen at that time, Mr. Dyck? Maybe something outside  
the studio?"

"I don't remember nothing else. I can't believe I remembered that, even."

Scully took a breath. "What about the victims, Mr. Dyck? Is there anything  
you can tell us about them?"

"Like what?"

"You... acted... with five different men in _Cocks In Socks_ alone,  
yet only John Cummings has died."

"Yet," he said, bleakly. "Fuck. You don't know. Maybe they'll all turn  
up dead before this is over."

"Before _what_ is over?"

"Forget it. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. I'm wasted."

"Mr. Dyck--"

"Look, you got anything else you want to talk about? I don't want to  
be rude or nothing, but I'm not feeling too social right now."

"Will you be willing to speak with us again if we need you to?"

"Sure. I'll pencil you in," he said.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Mulder's steps were even and clean on the  
wet pavement. The longer he ran, the more he felt them in every fiber of  
his body. His sweat mingled with the rain that had been falling steadily  
all night. His breath came out harsh and raspy; it sounded like more of  
an accomplishment than it really was. He was pushing himself tonight, running  
faster, running farther. He still hadn't reached the point at which his  
thoughts would cease, when he could just be and not have to be anything  
specific. No matter how brutally he pummeled himself, he couldn't beat  
his wanting from his muscles. On the other side of town, Walter was already  
in bed. As had been made clear to the agent many many times before, working  
near Walter was no guarantee of anything more than diminished self-esteem,  
a tension headache, and an unrelieved erection. He hadn't been joking when  
he'd told Mulder this would be no holiday.

Mulder consoled himself with thoughts of Scully, who had handily won  
this year's honors for restraint that afternoon at Peter Dyck's apartment.  
While Mulder himself had struggled to keep a straight face and prevent  
himself from saying something offensive, his partner had looked no more  
troubled by the proceedings than she might have, say, if they'd been discussing  
lunch with the sandwich cart guy.

_There's something sexy about a woman who can say Red, White, And  
Blue Balls without cracking a smile. There shouldn't be, but there  
is_.

Hours had passed since they'd left Sylvan Gardens, and Mulder still  
didn't have a working theory on what had happened to the dead men apart  
from simple accidents. He wasn't dismissing the one-balled wonder with  
the great employee discount, but it seemed like a long shot, even to him.  
None of Moorcock's teammates had even reported an ugly hangnail since the  
accident.

_I get a couple of weeks I don't have to suck any dick_. Idly Mulder  
imagined Walter saying this to himself every time the agent left town on  
assignment. Nah. Walter wasn't really one to mince words. If he'd appeared  
to be avoiding Mulder as if the agent was a schizophrenic Scientologist  
since they'd hit Seattle, it had to be a coincidence.

At last Mulder returned to the hotel, dripping, panting, and lead-footed.  
After the drenching he'd just received, it didn't seem to him that he would  
particularly enjoy a shower, but neither did he relish the idea of slipping  
into bed as clammy as he was. He peeled off his running gear without pause,  
padding nude into the bathroom.

Once the first heat of the water seeped into his bones, he changed his  
position on the advisability of the shower. It was sensual, surprisingly.  
He could almost see the steam rising from his skin. He took his time about  
getting clean, turning the routine soaping into more of a caress, letting  
the spray soothe his burning muscles. He allowed himself a luxurious stretch  
as he washed his hair. Before he knew what was happening, he was singing  
_Ma  
Cherie Amour_. It might have been impressive, if he'd known any of the  
lyrics. He was still toweling his hair with the only provided towel when  
he returned to the main room.

"Thank-you, Agent Mulder, this is a real little time-saver," Walter  
said.

"Jesus Christ!" Mulder jerked, dropping his towel. He bent quickly and  
retrieved it, glaring at the AD while he wrapped the towel snugly around  
his hips.

Walter raised a brow. "Still modest, Mulder? After all we've been to  
each other?"

"You've been a pain in the ass, Walter. Don't try to read any more into  
it than there is."

The AD unfolded himself from the room's only chair. "You wouldn't believe  
the day I've had," he said, stripping off his trenchcoat and laying it  
over the back of the chair. "You'd think the organizers of these bullshit  
seminars would think twice before asking a group of armed men to participate  
in role-playing exercises. If I hear the word 'empowerment' one more time--"

"Ooh, you'll what?"

"Never mind. It's not important. Come here."

"Forget it. Not until I find my pants."

He sighed. "Mulder. I've been thinking about this all day--"

"Well, you can just go back to your hotel and think about it all night,  
too. _You_ get the Playboy Channel."

Walter smirked. "Mr. Dyck didn't lend you his audition tape?"

"No, but he did offer me the dildo they made from a mold of his dick."  
The AD scowled. "Only a hundred were made. It's a collector's item." He  
took a step toward Mulder. The agent fought a smile. "It comes with Duracells--"  
Walter grabbed Mulder's arms and pulled the agent roughly against him.

"What did you do with it?" The AD asked. He tugged gently at Mulder's  
towel and let it fall delicately to the floor.

"Wh... what?"

"The dildo." He ran his tongue along the shell of Mulder's ear.

"I... stop that," he said.

Walter stroked the agent's ass. Mulder shuddered. The friction of his  
cock against Walter's slacks was doing terrible things to his equilibrium.  
He could almost _hear_ his IQ dropping.

"Mulder?"

"I was going to give it to Scully," he moaned when the AD took a nipple  
into his mouth, "but I thought she might use it to beat me to death. I  
didn't want you to have to explain that."

"So thoughtful." He kissed Mulder then, for the first time. Walter rarely  
kissed him so carefully; with the AD, it was all intensity more than finesse.  
And he had a point, Mulder had to admit. Still, this kiss was different,  
warm, and wet, and lingering. He bucked against Mulder in an echo of his  
true intent, tongue sliding over Mulder's own as if he hoped to make his  
lover come from this alone. It didn't seem so impossible, just then.

"We can't do this," Mulder gasped, jerking out of Walter's arms. The  
AD's skin was flushed, his mouth swollen. _Oh my God, I really am insane._

"You're dodging me," he accused. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing, Walter. Really, I--"

"I usually have to beat you off with a stick, Mulder. Why start protecting  
your virtue now?"

"Not mine," he hissed. "Will you keep your voice down?"

"Start talking."

"Scully has a boyfriend," he said.

Walter blinked. "What?"

"She has a boyfriend."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Mulder raked his hair. "She's never mentioned it to me, which isn't  
surprising. But she has a boyfriend. And the reason I _know_ that  
is I heard her talking to him earlier." Comprehension was coming slowly  
to Walter Skinner. _We should have had this conversation before  
I lost the towel again_. He sighed. "That's Scully's wall," he said,  
pointing. "Listen."

Walter did. He looked startled. "_Little House On The Prairie_?"

"I'm not supposed to know about that, either. Breakfast should be a  
riot tomorrow."

He colored as realization dawned. "She must have heard us."

"That's probably why her TV is turned up so loud," he agreed.

"Shit."

"Yeah, well, don't go embarrassing yourself groveling for my forgiveness,  
Walter."

"How do you find these fleabags, anyway?"

He slumped on the bed. "I look for the ones that have Mello Yello in  
the pop machines, usually. In a pinch, I'll take one with a flashing neon  
sign. Of course--"

"Shut up, Mulder, all right?"

He grinned. "You know, it could be _weeks_ before Scully and I  
wrap this one up. Justice is blind, and she's wearing a cheap watch."

"Fuck you, Mulder."

Standing again, he pulled the AD back into his embrace. Walter's hands  
ran slowly up and down his back, kneading his muscles, testing his resistance.  
"You could always gag me," Mulder said.

"Don't think that hasn't crossed my mind before."

Mulder rested his forehead against Walter's shoulder. "I'm going to  
have to go running again," he mumbled.

The AD tipped Mulder's face up and kissed him again, a searing, mind-numbing  
kiss. _Jesus Christ. What the hell are they teaching you at that seminar?_

The agent worried his lover's lip with his teeth, sucking it gently to  
remove the sting. "Walter..."

"I don't want you to think I just came here for sex," he said.

"But you _did_ just come here for sex."

"I don't--"

"I'm not complaining, mind you, but I think I'm in a unique position  
to confirm that you aren't packing your Travel Yahtzee." He coaxed his  
lover back and kissed him again, tongues mingling. A pleasant hum was building  
in him. And it pissed him off that he couldn't do anything about it.

"We could talk about the case," Walter said, licking his neck.

"Forget it. I'm off duty." He slid his hand into the front of Walter's  
slacks and took hold of his lover's erection. The AD bucked into his hand.

"We could... we could..."

"We could watch the Weather Channel."

"What about the parking lot?"

"What _about _the parking lot?"

"Your car..."

"We can't do that," Mulder admonished.

"Why the hell not?"

"It's a rental." He started to loosen Walter's tie, but the AD grabbed  
his wrist.

"No."

Mulder smiled. "No?" He tried for a kiss, but Walter released his hands,  
backing away.

"Goddamn it." He ran a hand over his head.

"If it helps, I can switch to an aftershave that smells more like roach  
killer." The AD favored him with one final glare before he snatched up  
his overcoat and stalked out of the room. Mulder collapsed on the bed.

_I just held an entire conversation with my boss, buck naked. Should  
look good on my annual employee evaluation. 'Agent Mulder is diligent,  
tenacious, and generously endowed. I recommend a significant salary increase.'_  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


"All right, I need a sperm wrangler over here!"

A young blonde woman brushed past Mulder and Scully carrying a huge  
water gun. "What the fuck is the matter with you?" the man shouted at her.  
"You think this is a fucking fertility clinic or something?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Prokopchuk."

"Forget it. Just..." He touched her arm, his face all sincerity. "This  
guy. He hasn't gotten laid in fucking _years_, right? This is the  
best fuck of his life, such as it is. Fucking Gary, he's useless, you know?  
That guy comes, it looks like a fucking squirt of hand cream. I want come  
on the bed. The window. The carpet. I want people watching this movie,  
thinking '_Jesus Christ_, that guy oughta be coming blood by now.'  
You know what I mean?"

When Prokopchuk retreated, the woman got to work, firing God knew what  
out of her gun. She went about the work gravely, placing each shot meticulously  
before she made it.

"So, Mulder, what does your girlfriend do?"

Scully glared at him. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

"Oh, Scully, I'm not enjoying myself half as much as that guy," he said,  
pointing to the tired-looking, naked young man lounging on the bed.

She sighed. "I would have realized something was up after the fifth  
take."

"You know what they say: if someone's worth doing, he's worth doing  
well."

She smiled. "I want you to know I'm applying for a transfer as soon  
as we get back to DC."

They were standing in an old warehouse in the middle of nowhere, on  
the set of _Specific Rim_. It was a low-budget affair, even by the  
standards of the industry, employing only three actors and one set. The  
man in question was Gary Groening, a hardy soul who had already been called  
upon to perform or participate in an astonishing array of sex acts in the  
short time the agents had been there. That he was no longer capable of  
producing an impressive amount of ejaculate came as no surprise to Mulder.  
Despite his considerable staying power, Groening lay on the provided bed,  
Christ-like, and as close to death as Mulder had ever seen anyone.

"Why don't they give him a break?"

"They can't, Scully. Your average adult film is shot in less than two  
weeks. They let him go today, they have to worry about continuity."

She raised a brow. "Are we watching the same production, Mulder? He  
can't even keep their names straight."

Mulder smirked. "_You_ tell me which one is Cliff."

"I suppose you know?"

"Sure. He's the one with the feet."

"What?"

"He's got nice feet," Mulder said. "Most people don't."

"We've spent the last hour watching three men perform acts that are  
still illegal in some parts of the country, and you noticed his _feet_?"

"What were _you_ looking at, Scully?" She flushed. _I think I  
see an opening..._" What would Howard say if he knew?"

She blanched. "Mulder--"

"You two are the feds, right?" Mulder turned to find a short, greying,  
and extremely red man squinting at them over the tops of his bifocals.  
"Andy Prokopchuk," he said. "I'm the director."

"My name is Dana Scully, and this is my partner, Fox Mulder."

"Nice to meet you. We can talk over here." Mulder let him lead and fell  
back into step with Scully.

"Mulder, what did you do?" she said.

"I must admit, I'm surprised at you, Scully. After all this time, I'd  
have thought you'd be more careful with your private conversations."

"Mulder--"

"You want some coffee?" Prokopchuk asked.

"No, thank you."

He leaned against the trailer, squinting at them once more. "You're  
here about Peter Dyck, right?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder said. "We're hoping you can shed some light on events  
that took place during the production of one of your films. What was the  
name of it, Scully?"

_Red, White, And Blue Balls_, she bit out.

"That's right," Mulder said, snapping his fingers. "I understand there  
was an accident on the set involving Alex Moorcock. Is there anything you  
can tell us about that?"

"It was a fucking insurance nightmare, I can tell you that. That arrogant  
little prick tried to sue me."

"I take it the suit was unsuccessful?"

"Of course it was. Playing fucking street hockey with no protective  
gear during his off time on the set of an adult film, he could've caved  
in his fucking skull and I'd still be laughing. Ignorant bastard, I don't  
know what he was thinking--"

"Mr. Prokopchuk, can you think of any reason why anyone would blame  
Peter Dyck for any of this?"

"No. Well, he was fucking Alex at the time. I mean, apart from his obligations  
to the film."

"You're saying the two men were romantically involved?"

He gave Scully a pitying look. "I'm saying they were _fucking_,  
honey. Wasn't any romance about it."

"We're having some trouble locating Mr. Moorcock," she said. "We were  
told he was working at Target--"

"He quit that gig. Somebody recognized him. After that, it was all over  
for him."

"I see. Do you know where he is now?"

"He's tending bar at Meaty Boy. I don't know who he's living with. Little  
cocksucker's been leeching off the flavor of the month since his balls  
dropped."

"You seem to be fairly well-informed for a man who professes to dislike  
him."

"I said he was stupid, I never said I hated him. I pity the guy, you  
want to know the truth. I mean, what's he going to do for the rest of his  
life?"

"You've stayed in contact with him, then?"

"Sure. I buy him dinner sometimes. Talk over old times."

_I think I saw that in The Big Drill_. "Well, I think that's  
all we need for now. Thank-you for your time."

"No problem. Listen, Agent Mulder?"

"What?"

"You've got a good look. You ever do any amateur work?"

"Just once," he said. "It didn't pan out."

They were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. "Mulder."

"Where are you?" came Walter's voice, low and sexy.

His gut clenched. _Shit_. "Hang on." He turned to Scully and Prokopchuk.  
"Excuse me a minute, will you?"

"Mulder--" Scully began, but he was already gone.

"I'm on the set of _Specific Rim_," he said, "watching--" he turned  
back to the bed. His jaw dropped. "Watching Gary Groening attempting to  
blow two men at once. Jesus Christ, that's really something..."

"Do I want to know exactly why you're there?"

"Probably not. We can always go over it in your office."

"Oh, I certainly hope so."

Somebody turned on a portable stereo. The sounds of Kenny G filled the  
warehouse. "Let me just take this outside. I can't think like this."

"How long are you going to be?" Skinner asked when Mulder was safely  
outside.

The image of the three men was still prominent in his head. _That  
guy must have TMJ from hell_. "What?"

"Are you considering some part-time work, Agent Mulder?"

He grinned. "No, but I was offered some."

"Mulder--"

"Are you looking for a little afternoon delight, Walter?"

"If that's the best you can do. Right now, I'll take fifteen minutes.  
I'm not picky--"

"_Mulder!_ Look out!"

The agent spun at the sound of Scully's voice. There was no time to  
get out of the way before he was struck by a red Honda. Pain exploded all  
over as he landed on the hood, rolled, and was tossed in a heap on the  
ground. Dimly he was aware of Scully shouting at the driver, Scully firing  
her gun, Walter's voice coming from the phone he still held. The squeal  
of tires as the driver escaped. Scully, rolling him on to his back, probing  
his head with gentle hands.

"Mulder, can you hear me? Mulder!"

"If I lose a testicle over this, I'm going to kill myself," he groaned,  
and passed out.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


He found consciousness slowly, fumbling for it was if through layers  
of gauze. Pain was his first awareness, and part of him wanted to return  
to the place he'd been, quiet, and warm. His head throbbed, his legs ached,  
and his back burned. The only comfort waiting for him here came in the  
form of the rain that still fell outside. The lights had been extinguished  
at some point during his sleep, and the only illumination was the leaky  
grey rain-light that came through the window.

Walter sat in a chair that might have been designed by a sadist, glaring  
fruitlessly.

"Walter," Mulder croaked.

The AD jerked in his chair and was immediately at Mulder's bedside.  
Gone was the glare, only to be replaced by an expression of profound irritation.  
"Mulder. How are you feeling?"

"Meaty Boy," he said.

Walter rolled his eyes. "Now is not the time, Mulder."

"It's not what it sounds like. What time is it?"

"A little after eight."

"We've got to get going," Mulder said, dragging himself into a sitting  
position. His head spun.

"You're not going anywhere, cowboy. You've got to get examined."

"I'm fine."

"You're a wreck," Walter said equably.

"I'm fucking _fine_, all right? I have to go." He swung his legs  
over the side of the bed and started to rise. Those same legs, legs that  
had carried him through far worse than this, crumpled beneath him. It was  
only his lover's foresight that prevented him from hitting the floor. "Shit,  
Walter, what did they give me?"

"Scully!" Walter said. He hauled Mulder back to the bed. "Never let  
it be said that your mother never raised any stupid children."

"I'll get crutches. Come on!"

"Scully!" He shouted again. "Goddamn it. Where the hell is she?"

"She's renting me a wheelchair, if she's got any sense."

"You're staying here tonight, Mulder. I don't know how much clearer  
I can make it. If I have to handcuff you to the bed, you are staying _here_."

"Scully!" Mulder cried, glaring at his lover.

At last she appeared, looking frantic, until she saw Mulder sitting  
in bed. "What? I thought you'd had a brain hemorrhage or something."

"No such luck. Would you please explain the situation to him?"

"I already have," she said calmly. "You can't get out of bed. You took  
a serious blow to the head--"

"I've done it before."

"All the same, I think it's a good idea for you to stay here overnight."

"You know I can't do that." She was silent. "Scully?"

"I'm accompanying her to the bar tonight, Mulder."

"The hell you are!"

"Mulder..."

"I'm fine. Give me a few minutes to get my bearings and I'll be good  
as new. You have to go back to the seminar in the morning, you can't afford  
to piss around with this."

"I realize this case is important to you, Agent Mulder--"

"Yeah, well, I'm the one with the big H tattooed on my ass, I think  
I deserve a little consideration."

"We'll find the man who ran you down."

"_I'll_ find him."

"Mulder, you really can't leave the hospital until we're better informed  
of the extent of your injuries. I'm sorry, but it's true. It's for your  
own good."

He leaned back in bed. His vision was coming in and out of focus. His  
balance was nonexistent. He felt a little nauseous, and it felt _really_  
good to be resting his head. He was a hurting unit. "Fine."

"Fine?" Walter blinked.

"Fine. The hell with it. I can always watch _Walker: Texas Ranger_."

Scully let out a breath. "Good. I'm sorry, Mulder. We'll come back and  
check on you tonight."

"Super."

"I'll meet you outside, Agent Scully," Walter said. As soon as she'd  
gone, Walter sprang into action, taking advantage of Mulder's weakened  
position to snatch up his arm and lock it securely to the headboard. Mulder  
was too queasy to do much more than protest. He certainly didn't put up  
a fight.

"Wouldn't you know. The first time you tie me up, I'm concussed and  
you're on your way to a gay bar with the other woman."

"I'm sorry," he said, meeting Mulder's eyes.

"You'd better have your coffin all picked out, Walter," he said softly.

"Who do you think you're fooling? You couldn't kick your _own_

ass in this condition."

"Son of a bitch," he said, to no-one in particular.

Walter's jaw tightened. "Get some rest. You need it."

When he was gone, Mulder collapsed on the bed with a moan. _I need  
a cyanide capsule, is what I need. Oh, Christ..._ Whatever they'd shot  
him up with, it was a good thing the vials were under lock and key. Anyone  
possessing some would be pretty popular on the street. But it didn't really  
touch his pain at all. It just gave him a more positive attitude about  
it.

_Call me Pollyanna. And change the name of this two-bit town to Gladville_.

He yanked ineffectually at his left arm. The clinking sound of the handcuffs  
pleased him somehow. _He should have chained a leg, too. I could be like  
the guy in that Rubbermaid commercial_. He squirmed and thrashed himself  
into the most comfortable position to be had and switched on the television.  
Just when he'd come down to a decision between _Walker: Texas Ranger_  
and something starring Connie Selecca, a nurse shuffled into the room.

"Mr. Mulder! How are we feeling?"

"Better, thank-you."

"Good. Dr. Wharton was worried about you for a while. But we were assured  
you had a hard head."

"I wonder who told you that?"

She smiled. "Can I get you anything? Something to drink, or a magazine?"

Mulder put on his best ladykiller smile. "You know what I could really  
use right now?"

"What's that?"

"A pen, and some paper. I figure as long as I'm here all night, I may  
as well write that letter I've been promising my grandmother."

"You two are close?"

"Oh, yeah. Just about broke my heart when she moved to Florida."

"That's so sweet." She smiled again. _I am such an asshole_. "I'll  
be right back."

True to her word, the nurse returned within minutes with a brand new  
ballpoint and a sheaf of hospital stationery. With one final sugary smile,  
she left him to it.

Mulder stared at the paper in his lap and tried hard not to laugh. _Here's  
something to write home about. Dear Grandma, I wish I had more time to  
write, but I'm breaking out of the hospital so I can join my lover at a  
gay bar and hopefully touch bases with a man who lost a testicle during  
a freak street hockey accident on the set of an adult film._

He supposed it wouldn't have mattered if he had said that, even if she  
had still been alive. Between his handwriting and her cataracts, nobody  
would have known the difference.

Sighing, praying, reciting mantras, Mulder dismantled the pen and set  
about twisting its spring into a makeshift lock pick. After much fumbling,  
and more cursing, the powers that be took mercy on him and the cuffs sprang  
open, releasing his arm. He swung his legs over the side of the bed once  
again, rubbing his wrist thoughtfully. _That was too easy_. Standing  
was another matter. It took sheer force of will to remain upright, but  
he succeeded after the third try. His vision was slightly blurred, and  
his euphoria remained, as did his pain, but he was standing. That it could  
be construed as a metaphor for his life was something he didn't care to  
contemplate.

As he surveyed his clothing in the small closet provided, he realized  
just what was wrong with the ease of his escape. Walter has trusted him  
not to try. It was a mistake his lover would likely not make again. It  
took Mulder fifteen minutes to dress, and he was in no shape for a stealthy  
escape, so he took the nonchalant route, walking straight past the nurse  
who had been so helpful, going so far as to offer a grateful wave.

"Mr. Mulder, you should be lying down!" she said.

"I'm fine. Don't I look fine?" He stumbled badly, but recovered. "Shit.  
I'm fine. Really. Would you call me a taxi?"

"I don't think--"

"Please." He gave her an earnest look. "I'm fine. I'd have to be nuts  
to leave if I wasn't, wouldn't I?"

She sighed. "All right. But if that bald gentleman comes looking for  
you--"

"He won't. Scout's honor." It wasn't until he'd done it that he realized  
he'd raised the wrong hand.

The nurse cast him one final skeptical look before she picked up the  
phone and dialed.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


The music blaring out of the Meaty Boy club was loud enough to create  
vibrations in the pavement that surrounded the place, loud enough to cause  
an answering throb in Mulder's chest as he stood outside, staring at the  
place, giving his idea a second thought. It took him a second to place  
the song, and once he had, he was thinking again. Erasure, _River Deep,  
Mountain High_.

He was still coasting on whatever they had given him at the hospital,  
and that may or may not have affected his clothing choices. Clad in jeans,  
his leather jacket, a tight white t-shirt, and a pair of yellow construction  
boots much like those Peter Dyck had been wearing in the photograph that  
had very nearly ruined Mulder's life, he knew he looked like Meaty Boy  
personified. And he had the unfortunate feeling that if someone grabbed  
his ass at the wrong moment, he was going to join the ranks of the many  
men before him who had undoubtedly done face plants in the place. And God  
and all his angels couldn't help him if Walter saw that.

Nobody could.

"Hey, are you going in, or what?"

Mulder turned to face a tall, pale man with a wealth of red hair and  
a pair of damned strange blue eyes. "Yeah."

"Good," he said, grinning. "Maybe I'll buy you a drink."

"Only maybe?"

The man shook his head and headed inside. _Fox Mulder. Devoted son.  
Special Agent with the FBI. Boy toy_. By the time he had definitely  
made up his mind to go inside, Jimmy Somerville's _Coming_ was blaring  
out the door in place of Erasure. There was nothing out of the ordinary  
about the place.

A wall of tv screens played twelve different music videos, none of which  
matched the music that Mulder was steeped in by now. Flashing lights, a  
fine blue haze of cigarette smoke, and a _lot_ of nicely put together  
gyrating flesh dominated the room. It was at once both alien and completely  
familiar to him.

Mulder affected a strutting gait and entered the throng, blessing all  
who looked his way with an enigmatic smile. He couldn't spot Walter, which  
wasn't that surprising, but neither did he see Scully, which was more unusual.  
Of the many people in the bar, women were a tiny minority, most of them  
sitting together in a booth, looking out at the other celebrants with a  
sort of fond contempt. After much brushing against of bodies and the occasional  
grope, Mulder made it to the bar. Three men served there; one a tall, lanky  
blonde, one a stockier brunet, and the third a massive black man with a  
decidedly unfriendly face.

The agent sidled up to the bar and surveyed the blonde as he served  
up paralyzers to a pair of sweet young men in leather. His mind was foggy,  
it was hard to tell, but with a little more weight, a better tan, a happier  
expression... He stared hard at the blonde until the object of his attentions  
noticed him doing it.

"What do you need?"

_There's a loaded question... _"I'm looking for Alex Moorcock,"  
he shouted. Up close, there was no further uncertainty. This was he.

"What for?"

"My name is Fox Mulder, I'm with the FBI. My partner and I have been  
trying to find you."

He grinned. "You're FBI?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see your ID."

"You don't believe me?"

"Where's your partner?"

"I don't know."

"Where's your ID badge?"

He patted himself down. It was getting harder to think. "Shit. I left  
it at the hotel."

"Uh-huh. What are you drinking?"

"Nothing. I'm on medication."

"You and everybody else here, man." He poured Mulder a shot of some  
cheap scotch and shoved it across the bar. "You want Alex Moorcock?"

Mulder met his eyes. Looked back at the shot glass. _Mulder, where  
the fuck is the voice of reason here?_ He picked up the glass and downed  
it in one swallow. "You're him?"

"I'm him."

"What can you tell me about Peter Dyck?"

Moorcock poured him another shot, and took one for himself. "Why?"

"In the last six months, his costars have developed a nasty habit of  
getting into accidents."

He nodded. "You think I'm involved?"

"I don't know. Jesus!" he said. Someone had reached between his legs  
and given him an affectionate squeeze. It was the redhead.

"I was going to buy you a drink, but I see Alex beat you to it."

"You snooze, you lose, man," Alex said with a smile.

"I'll take the next round."

"Wild Turkey, all around."

"Fucking rotgut." He turned to Mulder. "I don't think I've seen you  
here before."

"I'm in town on business."

"Ah," he said, clearly disbelieving. "My name's Cam."

"Mulder," he said.

"First or last?"

"Only."

Cam grinned. "The queer formerly known as Mulder."

He sighed. How was he supposed to get rid of this guy? Where the hell  
were Scully and Walter? Moorcock set down another drink and Mulder swallowed  
it without hesitation. He was in serious trouble, he knew it, and he didn't  
much care. "So, Alex. You seem to be the key here."

"How's that?"

"_Red, White, And Blue Balls_." _Where's Scully when I need her?_

He stiffened. "I don't want any trouble."

"I'm not giving you any. I just want some answers. I want to know why  
the deaths started happening after your accident. Why one man and not another?"

"I don't know," he said. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

"I'm not suggesting you did. But this seems to be about you, and about  
Peter Dyck. And you were involved with him. Right?"

"I was--"

Cam leaned in close and licked Mulder's ear. The agent jerked away.

"What--"

"How about a dance?" In his eyes, another question.

_Shit_. "I really can't."

"Come on. Just one. It's not going to kill you."

Moorcock had taken advantage of this distraction to turn his attention  
to some of the other men at the bar. Mulder knew he could blink and the  
man would disappear. "I can't. I don't dance."

"We don't have to do it here," he purred in Mulder's ear. "There's a  
room upstairs--"

"Is there a problem here?"

Mulder spun to face Walter, obviously angry, and thoroughly out of place  
here in his professional attire. Scully, he saw, had already located Moorcock  
at the other end of the bar.

"Just trying to wheedle a dance out of him, man. It's not a problem  
unless he says no." Walter outweighed Cam by a good hundred pounds, but  
the smaller man looked relatively unconcerned.

"He's with me," Walter growled.

Cam's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Maybe you should let him  
decide that," he said.

"No, he's not kidding," Mulder grinned. "I'm definitely with him."

He gave Mulder a pitying look. "You could do so much better."

"And he could do a lot worse. Fuck off."

"Mulder--"

"You'd better go, Cam. I've seen him in this mood before. There's no  
reasoning with him."

"You want my phone number?"

"Is your Miracle Ear acting up?" Walter came closer, looming over Cam  
now. "I said _fuck off_." Cam shoved Walter backward. Mulder closed  
his eyes, waiting for the blow he was sure would fall. When no sounds of  
agony were forthcoming, he looked again, only to find Walter glaring at  
him with a thunderous expression.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I'm as corny as Kansas in August," he said. "And high as a flag on  
the fourth of July..."

"Save it. How did you get out of the hospital?"

"With the loving assistance of my grandmother."

"I'm not asking, I'm not asking..."

"I feel fine, Walter."

"I'll just bet you do. Come on. We're getting out of here before you  
vamp your way into a gang bang on the pinball table."

"Moorcock--"

"Scully's taking care of that." He grabbed Mulder's arm and led him  
toward the back of the bar. "I can't believe you," he muttered. "Doped  
up, stinking drunk, tarted up like Mr. February--"

"Walter."

"What?"

"About the pinball table..."

"Tread softly."

"We might win a free game."

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, glaring at his lover. "Fuck  
you, Mulder. You're an ignorant, selfish bastard. And you're a cheap drunk."

There was something sexy about Walter tonight. With all the men dancing  
around them in leather and tight denim and Lycra, he alone stood as an  
oasis of sanity. He was strength, and reason, and he looked fucking _great_  
in that suit...

"Walter."

"_What?_"

"I love it when you're so Alpha."

"Mulder--" Whatever he'd intended to say was cut off when Mulder slung  
his arms around the AD's neck, letting his weight collapse the pair of  
them against the wall. A chorus of hoots went up around them, but all Mulder  
heard was the rasp of Walter's breath against his cheek. Wrapping one long  
leg around his lover's hips and hooking his boot beneath Walter's ass,  
Mulder thrust his tongue deeply into the AD's mouth. In this position,  
his groin came into greater contact with Walter's own. Both men were erect,  
and Mulder took advantage of everything he had at his disposal, setting  
a slow, burning rhythm early on, sucking Walter's tongue into his mouth  
when the AD proved reluctant to supply it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Walter began touching him back,  
almost resignedly, his hands clenching in Mulder's hair when the agent  
tried to tear his mouth away. He rocked his hips against Mulder's in a  
brutal, punishing tempo that made Mulder mourn the fact that they could  
not be alone.

This, then, was the ultimate public fuck. Right out in the open, more  
or less, with no-one paying them the slightest attention. Mulder imagined  
Walter could drop his pants and fuck him on the spot and the most interruption  
anyone would provide would be to offer him a cold drink in between orgasms.

Inevitably, Walter came to his senses, letting Mulder go so abruptly  
that the agent would have fallen to the floor had his lover's reflexes  
been less acute. Mulder stared at him, panting, burning, agonized.

"Please..."

"You're insane."

"Oh, God." He raked his hair, swaying toward the AD. Walter jerked backward,  
nearly toppling a spindly table upon which someone was dancing wildly.  
"We could do it," Mulder said, smiling seductively. "Please? The bathroom..."

"Yeah, us and fifty other men."

"Fuck!"

"You'll live."

"I--"

Their conversation was interrupted by the speedy passage of Alex Moorcock,  
who was past them and out the door in a flash, Scully hot on his heels.

"Who says alcohol slows your reaction time?" Mulder staggered after  
her.

Walter grabbed his arm. "Stay here," he said. He looked at Mulder, looked  
back at the crowd, and let out a frustrated breath. "Never mind. Come with  
me."

The two men had barely cleared the back doorway when the wall exploded  
next to Mulder's head. Walter caught him in a flying tackle and they hit  
the ground hard. Pain flared up all over Mulder's body once again. _Getting  
hit by Walter is just like getting hit by a speeding car. That should inflate  
his ego_.

"Stay down!" Scully cried.

Walter covered Mulder from head to toe, his groin pressed tightly against  
the agent's, his mouth inches away. His breathing was harsh, his weight  
unmovable. _Under any other circumstances..._ The AD risked a brief  
look up. He tightened his grip on Mulder and rolled them both against the  
wall.

"I think I'm getting aroused," Mulder said.

"Shut up."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble if you wanted to seduce me,  
Walter."

"I said shut the fuck up, Mulder!" He drew his gun. "Where are you,  
Scully?"

"I'm here!" Her voice came from the opposite side of the parking lot.

"Where's Moorcock?"

"I don't know."

Mulder struggled out of Walter's arms and pulled himself up on his knees.  
His stomach lurched. _Oh, Christ, Mulder, now is not the time_. He  
peeked around the corner. Scully hid behind a dumpster. He glimpsed a movement  
within a bank of cars. "Scully! He's behind the Corvette!" _And we're  
fucked if it's his_.

"Wait where you are!" Walter said. "Agent Mulder, I doubt you could  
recognize your own mother from five feet away in your condition."

"You think I'm going to risk being wrong about something like this?"

"You've already demonstrated your willingness to take risks once tonight.  
Do the words 'you need to stay in the hospital overnight' sound at all  
familiar to you?"

"I'll bet I got more out of Moorcock than you did." He pulled himself  
up on his feet, pressed his body against the wall."

"You got felt up," he said. "I had something more practical in mind."

Mulder glanced back at the cars. "Well, if _you'd_ feel me up a  
little more often--"

"I knew it. I knew you'd bring that--"

The agent bolted, yanking out his gun as he did so. "Freeze! FBI!"

"Mulder!"

He heard several shots as he ran, but either he was blessed or Moorcock  
had gotten his marksman's certificate from the International Correspondence  
School. The only pain Mulder felt came from injuries he had already sustained,  
and he was still sufficiently pickled to ignore it. His vision had not  
improved noticeably, and he felt sure his knees would buckle at any moment,  
but Scully was wearing heels, and Walter had caution against him. Only  
Mulder had the slightest hope of catching their quarry, and he knew it.

"Alex!" he wheezed. "We just want to ask you some questions!"

Moorcock never paused. If he ever sprained his mixing wrist, he could  
likely begin a third career as a sprinter. Leaping nimbly over cars, avoiding  
pedestrians, he made Mulder look even worse off than he was. Had he been  
chasing the man straight his sobriety might still have been in doubt. His  
lungs burned, his legs were about to collapse under his weight, and still  
he gave chase. If he stopped, he knew, he was going to be very, very sick.

The hunt led him into a darkened alley. He was halfway through it when  
he realized Alex wasn't there. The hair on the back of his neck prickled  
right up into his scalp. _Oh, fuck..._ There was a thump behind him,  
and he spun just in time to see the blonde's arms coming at him in a double-fisted  
swing. It connected solidly with his head, and he staggered, but thankfully,  
miraculously, remained standing. He pointed his gun at Moorcock in the  
same instant the bartender pointed his own weapon at Mulder.

"What, you're going to shoot me?"

"That's what it looks like." His hand shook even as he said it.

"You think you're ever going to be free after that?"

"What the hell do you know about my life?"

"More than you think. Look, you're not in any trouble," he gasped. His  
stomach was starting to protest. "You can still walk away from this."

"I can't."

"You can. You can trust me."

"Put your gun down."

He looked hard at Moorcock. He wasn't going to shoot Mulder, that much  
was clear. Anything else would be negligible. The agent holstered his gun.  
He had no sooner withdrawn his hand from his jacket when the bartender  
hauled back and slugged him with his gun hand, flaying Mulder's cheek and  
knocking him to the ground. He crumpled.

_Here it comes_. Mulder retched, again and again, head pounding,  
every muscle screaming, as close to coma as he had ever been. When it was  
done, he was coated with a cool, slimy sweat, weakened further, gasping.  
Moorcock, of course, was gone. Mulder heard hard footsteps coming rapidly  
his way. _Oh, great. The Grim Reaper. It's about fucking time_. Scully  
and Walter sprinted past him.

"Where's the car?" Scully shouted.

"Back at the bar," Walter said.

"Mulder?"

"I took a taxi."

His friends appeared in the alley opening. Walter was at his side instantly,  
and it was gratifying to have him there, his only consolation. His face  
was full of concern as he helped Mulder to his feet. Unable to stand on  
his own, Mulder leaned into the AD for support.

"You're going to need stitches," Walter said.

"Shit."

"Mulder, did you see where he went?" Scully asked.

"No."

"Damn it!" She kicked a garbage can that was unfortunate enough to be  
in her way. Kicked it again, for good measure.

"I'm sensing a lot of negativism here, Scully."

Her head shot up. Moving slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she walked  
toward him, gun still drawn. When she was done, she was scant inches away  
from him, apparently unconcerned about the difference in height.

"Fuck you, Mulder," he said helpfully.

"And the horse you rode in on," she snarled.

"So," he said, looking from Scully to Walter and back again. "Who wants  
pie?"  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


The face that met him in the mirror the following day was so far removed  
from his usual visage that he couldn't even call it a pale shadow of his  
former self. His left eye was blackened and almost swollen shut, the right  
bloodshot and underlined by a dark ring. His cheek was also swollen, held  
shut with butterfly bandages. The stitches beneath reminded him of nothing  
so much as Robert DeNiro in _Mary Shelley's Frankenstein_. His skin  
was pasty and puffy, his body was covered with scrapes and bruises, and  
he could barely hold himself upright for the headache that lanced through  
his skull with the slightest movement. After another moment of regarding  
himself in the mirror, this was no longer a concern. Soon enough he was  
on his knees before the toilet, retching once again.

_I'll take it back. I'll renounce my beliefs. I'll spend the rest  
of my life serving Slurpees to kids on skateboards. Just make it stop..._

"Good morning! I see you're feeling better."

When his latest convulsions ceased, he risked turning to glare at the  
figure in his bathroom doorway. "You," he said. It was the best he could  
manage.

Walter dampened a face cloth and seated himself on the edge of the bathtub.  
Mulder gave him the most piteous look he could manage. The AD's expression  
softened minutely. Tipping Mulder's head back gently with one hand, he  
ran the cloth over the agent's forehead with the other. Mulder shuddered  
with pleasure. This was the first thing he'd experienced in what seemed  
like weeks that wasn't unpleasant in any way. Crawling over, he rested  
his head in his lover's lap. Walter quietly closed the toilet lid and flushed.

"This is probably the worst of it," he said. "Drinking was about the  
worst thing you could have done."

"That's interesting. I thought getting punched in the face with a big-ass  
handgun was pretty bad."

"Well, think about the scar. You'll have a real ice-breaker with the  
ladies."

"It's not going to scar," he moaned. "They said it won't be noticeable."

Walter stroked his hair. "You can't stay here today," he said. "I have  
to get back to the seminar this afternoon, and Scully's going to need you  
for the interview with Peter Dyck."

"We should be checking out Moorcock's apartment, assuming we can find  
it."

"Oh, you'll be doing that, too. Scully's waiting for me to get you dressed  
and downstairs."

"That woman has no heart."

"Only where you're concerned. Can you stand?"

"I thought so, until a minute ago."

"Let's try again."

Whether from Walter's love and attention or Mulder's empty stomach,  
he managed to remain upright long enough to get showered, dressed, and  
folded into the car. He could feel Scully watching him, worrying in spite  
of his protestations of heartlessness, but he didn't have it in him to  
tell her how he felt, much less offer her their stock answer. He let her  
drive, unable to do much more than relax against the headrest and grumble  
about how close to his shoulders his knees currently were thanks to Scully's  
height problem. He told himself it was therapeutic and kept his mouth shut.

After an eternity, the car came to a stop. Mulder reluctantly opened  
his eye. Sylvan Gardens lay before him in all its questionable splendor.  
"Nirvana," he said.

"You know, Mulder, I can do this myself," Scully said decisively.

"Skinner didn't want me going alone--"

"He's never seen you kick anybody's ass before."

"I had a moment last night."

"I know. I know."

"Just stay in the car, I'll--"

"Forget it, Scully. I'll be fine."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do so." He opened the door and hauled himself to his feet by the  
handle. _Shit_. His head spun, but his legs felt fairly reliable.  
He braced himself against the car and took a deep breath.

"Okay?"

"If anybody makes a break for it..."

"I'll do the chasing."

"Right."

There was no answer to Dyck's buzzer, so the partners called once again  
on the manager to let them in. Once outside his door, the first thing Mulder  
noticed was the profound silence in the hallway. He looked at Scully. Her  
mouth tightened as she raised her arm to knock. There was no answer at  
his door, either.

"Maybe he's..."

"Shopping for a new set of nipple clamps?"

"Looking for a good deal on romaine lettuce," she said firmly.

"You're so quick to defend him, Scully. Has somebody got a crush?"

"It's never too late to lose that testicle, Mulder."

"Now what?"

"We could get the manager back up here."

"Forget it." He started patting himself down.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for my--" he found his lock picks, yanking them from his pocket  
with as triumphant a smile as he could manage.

"Mulder, he's not home. You can't break into his apartment."

"No, I can. Really. It's easy if you know how."

"Mulder--" She broke off when he knelt gingerly by the door and got  
to work.

"What if he comes back?"

"I don't think he will," Mulder said softly.

"We should have called first," she said, pacing. "How long is this going  
to take?"

He glanced up at her, grinning. "How long does it take to say 'Laura  
Ingalls Wilder'?"

"I'm going to blacken your other eye."

"Well, hold off on the righteous anger until I get the damned door open."

"You eavesdropped on a private conversation."

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." He heard a quiet click. The knob turned. Affecting  
the voice of a teenaged girl, he said "No! Don't open that door!"

"I'm definitely applying for a transfer," Scully said, rolling her eyes.

The agents entered the apartment silently, guns drawn, moving like cats  
as they scanned the living room. It was empty. Mulder noted with some amusement  
that the dead bird still lay on the patio. The bedroom was likewise vacant.

Scully sniffed. "Is that marijuana?"

"Sweetgrass," Mulder said.

Where was it coming from? The only room they hadn't yet checked was  
the bathroom, darkened and equally quiet, at the end of the hall. His own  
words came back to him now. They were in a horror movie, and Freddy Krueger  
was waiting for them with a couple of one-liners and an ugly sweater.

"Scully," he said, nodding toward the bathroom.

The smell of sweetgrass grew steadily stronger as they approached, almost  
overpowering when they finally reached the doorway. There was a light switch  
to Mulder's left. He switched it on and stepped inside. His jaw dropped.  
_Apparently  
we do have a lot in common_.

Peter Dyck hung by his neck from the curtain rod, the sash from his  
robe tied securely around his neck. It was the only thing he wore. Semen  
was splattered everywhere, reminding Mulder somehow of the sperm wrangler  
from _Specific Rim_.

"Oh my God," Scully said from behind him.

Mulder stared at the corpse for long moments. "It's not for everyone,"  
he said, finally. Scully produced her cell phone and placed a call to the  
Seattle PD while Mulder wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and started  
poking around.

When he opened the medicine cabinet, he was given pause, in spite of  
himself. Every shelf was crammed with pill bottles, pills of every size  
and description. He leaned in further, squinting with his good eye. One  
bottle in particular caught his eye.

"We've got a match on the Honda," she said, rejoining Mulder in the  
bathroom. "It's registered to Cameron Redenbach."

The agent glanced back at her. "I flirted with him at the bar last night."

"You flirted with the man who tried to kill you?"

"It might be considered extreme for someone else..."

"I was hoping the car belonged to Moorcock," she said. "We still don't  
have any leads on him."

"On the contrary, Scully. Mr. Dyck isn't the only one who got lucky  
today." Mulder brushed past her and leaned against the hallway wall, breathing  
deeply.

"What are you talking about?"

"We found Moorcock's flavor of the month," he said, handing her the  
bottle he'd taken. "Looks like our friend Alex is one of the fringe citizens  
of the Prozac Nation."

"Do you think Moorcock did it?"

"I'd hate to speculate."

"Uh-huh."

Mulder closed his eyes. "Well, I can't claim encyclopedic knowledge  
of Mr. Dyck's sexual preferences, but I'm willing to bet he didn't consider  
gunplay to be conducive to a romantic environment."

"This is a pretty steep coincidence, Mulder."

"The man was playing sugar daddy to a killer. Maybe the guilt got to  
him."

"How does Redenbach figure into this?"

"You tell me. I'm not exactly high performance right now."

"We won't know until I find him, I suppose."

"Hang on. Until _you_ find him?"

"Someone has to stay here to oversee the forensics people, Mulder, and  
you seem to be the winner on that one."

"Scully, I can't stay here."

"Open a window, Mulder, it's not going to kill you."

After a brief, half-hearted argument, Mulder agreed to remain behind  
while Scully hunted down the man who'd licked her partner's earlobe at  
the bar. While ordinarily not a particularly squeamish man in these situations,  
Mulder was not happy about waiting alone in Dyck's apartment, with the  
man's corpse cooling in the bathroom. The silence there was oppressive,  
not even broken by traffic or domestic disputes among the neighbors.

_"You know, there are worse ways to go, but I can't think of a more  
undignified one than autoerotic asphyxiation."_

_"Why are you telling me that?"_

_Fucking hell. And I can't even turn on the stereo_. Still, it  
could have gone worse for Dyck, assuming Moorcock had intended to kill  
the man.

He wasn't a particularly inventive killer, but he wasn't gentle, either.

And maybe Dyck wouldn't have been happy to know what he looked like  
in death, but he was dead. The worst that could befall him now would be  
if he was forced to haunt this fire trap for the rest of his sorry ectoplasmic  
existence. He hadn't seemed to glory in his profession, but at the same  
time, this was the stuff of which legends were made. By the time it hit  
the papers, some enterprising soul would already have a series planned  
around this. _Nooky In A Noose, parts one through five_. Mulder dialed  
Walter's number as he entered the bedroom.

"Skinner."

"Are you alone?"

"Why? Are you?"

"Not quite."

"Where's Scully?"

"I don't know."

He sighed heavily. "Where are you?"

"Peter Dyck's place. He's dead."

"Is he there?"

"Yeah." Mulder opened Dyck's closet carefully. As if stocked by someone  
with a serious dissociative disorder, it was sharply divided in content.  
One side appeared to have been culled entirely from the Frederick's of  
Hollywood catalogue, a strange, glittering menagerie of rubber pants and  
studded pirate shirts. Each individual g-string was carefully hung from  
its own lingerie hanger.

"Mulder?"

"It looks like an accident. He tied the belt a little too tight. He  
was jacking off." The opposite side of the closet was more LL Bean than  
PT Barnum. It appeared that Mr. Dyck preferred the rugged look for his  
more mundane activities, if he still leaned more toward the pin-up boy  
than the outdoorsman. Again, each article was immaculate and carefully  
hung. It was the only indication of a more meticulous outlook in the whole  
of the apartment.

"Are you feeling all right, Agent Mulder?"

He laughed shortly. "Not really. But I'll survive."

"Mulder--"

"It's just a little close to home."

"_Now_ it's close to home?"

"The danger is part of the attraction, you know? Some people say it's  
not, but it is. You let yourself go too far, and bang, you're dead. It's  
a control issue."

"Then it's a good thing you aren't doing that anymore. I've never considered  
you to be a very reserved man."

Mulder bent over the bed and squinted at the collection of books stacked  
along the headboard. He smiled faintly. That Anonymous was about the most  
prolific writer he'd ever read, apart from L. Ron Hubbard. And old L. Ron  
was writing from beyond the grave.

"I said, it's a good thing you aren't doing that anymore."

"You ever read _Dianetics_, Walter?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Agent Mulder?"

He turned. A crabby-looking man stood in the doorway, carrying a large  
nylon bag. Mulder hadn't heard him come in. "Listen, the forensics guys  
are here. I have to go."

"We're not done, Mulder."

"Yeah, yeah. Talk to you later, all right?" No sooner had he flipped  
his phone shut than it rang in his hand. He sighed. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder?"

"Yes."

"You want to find out about Alex?"

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. "Who is  
this?"

"Meet me at Naughty Nights And Earthly Delights in fifteen minutes."

"Are you kidding?"

"Look, I don't have time for this. Are you going to be there or not?"

"No, I may as well," he said. "If nothing else, I can always get some  
shopping in." He ended the connection and dialed Scully's number.

"Scully."

"How far are you from the corner of Furlough and Roper?"

"About twenty minutes. Why?"

"I just had an anonymous tip that we should be at Naughty Nights And  
Earthly Delights."

"Mulder, do you have any idea how tragic it is that a man with a mind  
like yours could waste it memorizing the location of every den of iniquity  
in North America?"

"I have certain parts of Europe in there, too. I mean, Amsterdam alone--"

"Mulder."

"Will you meet me there?"

"Why not? I'll be the one with the red carnation and my jacket over  
my head."

By the time he'd folded himself into a taxi, he was limping badly, and  
his headache had returned in full force. He was going to be useless to  
Scully if there were too many asses for her to kick alone. With a heavy  
heart, he called Walter again.

"Skinner."

"I've got a once-in-a-lifetime chance to spring you out of your sensitivity  
training."

"No, thank you."

"Come on. You're going to like this one."

Silence.

"All right, where?"

"Naughty Nights And Earthly Delights."

Walter expelled a breath. "This conversation is over."

"Walter, listen. I need you for back-up. I don't know what I'm getting  
into here."

"I know exactly what kind of backup you want. Wait," he barked. Mulder  
was treated to the sounds of his lover's hand over the mouthpiece, muffled  
voices, a slamming door.

"Walter?"

"I've had enough of this," he growled. "You come on to me when the only  
thing I can do is stare at you like the pathetic bastard I've become, you  
parade around me dressed up like a gigolo, but always at a crime scene,  
and now when you look like Jesus Christ's latest miracle you want me to  
meet you God knows where--"

"Naughty Nights And Earthly Delights."

"I don't care. I'm not coming."

_Huh. Huh-huh. He said 'coming._' "Corner of Furlough and Roper.  
Scully's already on her way."

"God damn you, Mulder--" The agent cut him off and leaned back in his  
seat, inhaling the mingled scents of faux-pine and urine that filled the  
cab. _I never thought I'd say this, but I'm up to here with the sex industry_.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


Mulder extracted a patent leather biker's cap from the rack and settled  
it at a jaunty angle on his head. "Hey, Scully, what do you think?" he  
said, grinning evilly.

She stared at him for long moments, her expression inscrutable. "Oddly,  
it suits you."

"Thank you," he said. "We could get two..."

"We're not getting any."

He didn't give her time to rephrase. "You, too? I thought Howard sounded  
kind of virile."

Scully sighed heavily and peered out the front window. "If your friend  
doesn't get here soon, I'm going to assume this was a prank." She turned  
back and fixed him with her best Special Agent look. "You don't want me  
to assume this is a prank."

"He'll show. What possible reason could anyone have to lure me here?"

Walter strode into the shop before Mulder had even finished asking the  
question.

"Oh my God," Scully said. "Mulder--"

"It's not what you think. I got a call, I called you, and I called him."

"What the hell is going on?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

Walter turned on him. "What are you wearing?"

Mulder flushed and yanked the cap off, tossing it on a shelf. "The shop  
was deserted when I got here. No note or anything." Walter glared at them  
both, his eyes doing all the talking. Clearly, he still suspected Mulder  
of nefarious intent in his invitation, but Scully's presence absolved him.  
It galled the agent that his run-down appearance was not enough to convince.

"What did he say when he called?"

"Nothing. Just to meet him here." Mulder bent over a display case full  
of dildoes and attachments. _Jesus. Some of that stuff looks like it  
belongs in a fish tank_. "I'm thinking he maybe saw Scully and got scared  
off. But he didn't say I should come alone."

Walter ran both hands over his head. "Not that I wouldn't like to while  
away my afternoon here, but I am expected elsewhere, as I'm sure you're  
both aware."

"Sir," Scully began, "I'm sure we can handle this. If you'd prefer to  
leave--"

"Just give me fifteen minutes," Mulder said. "I think we should wait."

Scully threw up her hands and prowled the shop, studiously ignoring  
anything of an explicitly sexual nature. Mulder knew exactly what was bothering  
her, all merchandising concerns aside. Thirteen men dead now, and Mulder  
as good as dead himself. This was no time to be screwing around looking  
for the good in people. As he watched, she settled herself next to a carousel  
of skimpy costumes and crossed her arms over her chest.

"How are you feeling?" Walter asked him.

"Like a hundred bucks." He met his lover's eyes and smiled weakly. "Hey,  
I'm still standing."

"Yeah, but when you think about _where_ we're standing--"

"This makes getting off the bathroom floor worth the effort, actually.  
Look at this," he said, plucking a pamphlet from the cash desk. "They have  
a customer rewards plan. Can you beat that?"

Walter shook his head. "You have thirteen minutes to convince me I shouldn't  
be giving the manager of this establishment your letter of recommendation.  
So far--"

The shop was flooded with the sound of pan flute and drums. All three  
drew their guns at once, heads turning.

"Is that _Yanni_?" Walter said.

"I think it's Enigma, actually--"

"Who cares?" Scully said. "Whoever you are, come out with your hands  
up," she called out.

Mulder crept toward the back of the shop, brushing past a display of  
inflatable people engaged in an inflatable orgy. _They never get the  
faces right_. Glancing back toward Scully, he moved further in. He checked  
the bathroom, the stock room... When he reached the back door, he discovered  
the reason for the delay. Cam Redenbach lay very still on the floor, his  
hands tied behind his back. Mulder knelt at his side. There was a click  
behind him, and the feel of cold steel at his temple.

"Drop the gun, baby."

He blinked. "Did you just call me _baby_?"

"Drop it!" Mulder did. Moorcock yanked him to his feet, wrapping one  
arm around the agent's throat. "Call them."

"Shoot me."

"You fucking call them, or I'll shoot all three of you."

"That's some threat coming from a man with thirteen corpses under his  
belt."

"I didn't kill anybody."

"You and every con to come through the American legal system in the  
last fifty years. Dyck's was a nice touch, though. I'm still trying to  
work out how you managed that one."

"What are you talking about?"

"It was a little too imaginative for you, I'll grant you that--"

"_What are you talking about?_"

Walter burst into the room, Scully right behind him. Both came to a  
halt when they spotted Moorcock and Mulder. Neither had to be told to drop  
their weapons.

"We found Peter Dyck's body this morning." Moorcock's arm tightened  
around the agent's throat. Mulder's breathing grew shallow as it became  
a struggle to draw air. "There's no walking away from this now," he wheezed.  
"You can kill us, but people are looking for you. People who know you."

"Shit." His voice was watery. "Shit."

"Give yourself up. It'll go easy for you."

"Me and every con to come through the American legal system in the last  
fifty years," he mocked. "I'd be sucking cock every day I was inside. I'm  
through with that shit."

He couldn't argue with that. "Why did you do it?"

"Fuck you, Mulder, you think I'm going to tell you my life story? Make  
you some coffee while we wait for your backup to arrive?"

"Actually, you're looking at my backup." Walter expelled a breath. He  
tore off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. _I guess they  
won't be sticking me in any hostage situations any time soon_. "Look,  
Alex. I don't know what your motive was for killing those men. But you  
don't have any reason to kill us."

Moorcock released him and shoved him over to where Walter and Scully  
stood. "You two," he said, waving his gun and Walter and Mulder. "Get in  
the closet." Mulder was about to speak, but the AD yanked on his arm. The  
door slammed shut behind them, plunging the men into darkness.

"I don't suppose you have Travel Battleship, either..?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

Mulder heard the doorknob rattle. "How secure is the lock?"

"It's ornamental. I can have this door open in thirty seconds."

He leaned against one wall. "You fulfil all my boyhood fantasies about  
the high school quarterback, you know."

"Big and stupid. So you've said. What the hell is he doing out there?"

"I'd like to think he's making her try on that Harem Girl costume by  
the door."

"You're cognizant of the fact that we're being held captive by a murdering  
psychopath who may or may not be killing your partner as we speak, are  
you not?"

"He's not killing her. No motive."

"What the hell are you talking about? You don't have a motive for the  
other killings, either."

"That was jealousy."

"Mulder, if I killed every man who made me jealous of you..."

The agent grinned in the dark. "The difference there is you aren't the  
murdering type. And I didn't have sex with those men."

"I'm not going there," he said. "Fuck. I hate this."

"You're a can-do guy. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand  
times: you need to stop and smell the Motion Lotion every now and again."  
Silence."Come on. I have some right here. It's not like you have anything  
else to do."

Silence.

"Walter?"

"You have Motion Lotion?"

"It's not mine. This is the stock room. Jesus, you think I carry crap  
like that around with me?"

"Since you asked..."

Mulder hauled himself to his feet and followed the sound of his lover's  
voice. The AD jerked when Mulder bumped into him. "Sorry."

"Of course you are."

He flipped the cap on the bottle he held and snaked an arm around to  
the vicinity of Walter's face. "Go on. Take a whiff. I'm curious."

"Fuck off, Mulder. Now is not the time to begin savoring life."

"Are you kidding? These could be our last moments together."

"And I'm trapped in a closet with a bottle of Motion Lotion thrust in  
my face. Wonderful. This is exactly how I wanted to go."

"Just smell it." Mulder heard him sigh heavily as he bent over the agent's  
hand. "Strawberry, or coconut?"

"Smoke."

"What?"

"I smell smoke."

"Well, I'll admit it's been a while since I used the stuff, but--"

"Fuck the Motion Lotion, Mulder! He's started a fire." Walter pulled  
away from him and rushed the door. Three sounds erupted almost simultaneously:  
thud, grunt, curse. Mulder heard movements, and the pattern repeated itself.

"The lock's a little hardier than you thought, eh?"

"There's something in front of the door."

"Great. We're going to burn to death inside three tons of flesh-colored  
latex."

"Help me!"

They rushed the door together. Once, twice. Every time he hit it , Mulder  
came closer to passing out. The smoke was thicker now, and Walter was coughing  
slightly. Mulder hacked like he'd had a three packs a day habit from infancy.  
On the fourth try, the lock gave and the door opened slightly. Smoke poured  
through the crack. The music was louder now, and he could just make out  
Scully's voice over it, not speaking, just letting out the occasional cry.

"Scully! What's going on?" Moorcock shouted incoherently. A shot was  
fired. "Scully!"

"Let's try the door again." It opened a little more. "I think I can  
push it."

Mulder stood back and let him do it. He peered over the AD's shoulder,  
trying to get a look at what was taking place outside. Scully had fought  
Moorcock for the gun. Crazy. If she'd gotten herself shot, he was going  
to be the next one to fire on her. At last Walter had the door open enough  
to squeeze through. Moorcock lay on his stomach on the floor. Scully knelt  
on his back, reading him his rights as she tightened the handcuffs on his  
wrists.

"Jeez, Scully, if I'd known you were that hard up for a date--" he broke  
off when he saw the blood spreading from her shoulder. "Walter, get her  
out of here."

"I'm fine."

"You and me both. You can kick my ass later." He opened the back door  
and dragged Redenbach outside before coming back for Moorcock. The sprinkler  
system kicked in as he knelt beside his captive.

"You should have given yourself up," he told the man.

Moorcock grinned. "Live free or die, man."

Mulder shook his head. "You're not too bright, are you?" He helped Moorcock  
up and led him out of the building. Scully leaned against the fence opposite  
the shop. Walter was on his cell phone, glaring at Mulder as he spoke.  
The agent was achy, smoky, grimy, and drenched. He grinned, all the same.

"All this and a wet t-shirt contest, too," he said.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


"I would have thought you already knew everything there was to know  
about that," Walter purred in Mulder's ear.

The agent jumped. After all this time, his lover still had the skill  
to sneak up on people. He gazed at the cover of the copy of _The Art  
of Male Genital Massage_ that he still held while he scrambled to come  
up with a suitable response. "Where is this _hostility_ coming from?"  
_Hm.  
Better than nothing_. He replaced the video on the shelf and turned  
to face the AD.

Walter had dressed for the occasion in a pair of jeans and a dark green  
oxford cloth shirt. His eyes glowed through his glasses, his mouth quirked  
up in as close to a smile as he ever came in public. "I also thought you'd  
be sick of this stuff by now."

"Love me, love my sexual deviance," he said.

The two men stood toward the back of one of Alexandria's 24-hour adult  
video stores. It was a little after two in the morning, and the man on  
duty was fast asleep at the front cash desk, a copy of _Biker Women_  
laid open on the counter before him.

"Why are we here?"

Casting a glance toward the front, Mulder smiled slyly and wrapped his  
arms around Walter's waist, tugging the AD gently into full contact. "I  
wanted to give you a chance to reenact our adventure in Naughty Nights  
and Earthly Delights. You know, without the fire and the gunplay."

"We didn't have an adventure." He struggled to get away, but Mulder  
held him firmly.

"We could have," he said. "I know you liked that Motion Lotion."

"Mulder--"

"Have you ever tasted it?"

"Why do you think I'm not titillated at the thought?"

The agent smiled. "Now _I'm_ titillated. When did this happen?"

"Let's get out of here."

Mulder met his eyes. Walter was already hard, so hard Mulder could feel  
a pulse in his groin, right through his jeans. He looked a heartbeat away  
from kissing Mulder. It had been well over a month since they'd last had  
this opportunity, and he wasn't going to waste it cooing in his bed over  
glasses of boxed Zinfandel. "Why don't we take the back door?" he said.  
"It's faster."

Walter gave him a feral smile and walked ahead of him, giving Mulder  
the chance to admire his ass. _My ass_. He walked casually,  
slowly, picking his moment, and then he sprang, just as capable of a good  
sneak as his lover, shoving the AD into the office and tugging the door  
closed behind him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The agent switched on the light. Having forsaken the garish look in  
the main body of the store, the manager had apparently decided to paper  
the walls of his office with promotional posters instead. All around them  
were images of naked, glassy-eyed men and women, oiled up and open-mouthed.  
A calendar was tacked up over the torso of one attractive brunette.

"Don't tell me you've done _this_, too."

"No, I haven't--"

"Good."

"And I'm not about to."

"Oh, yes you are." Walter batted ineffectually at Mulder's hands as  
the agent got to work on his buttons.

"No, I am _not_. There's someone out there--"

"Dead drunk and fast asleep. I know that guy. I was here for two hours  
once, and he never even twitched."

"You were here for two hours?"

"He was running _Whores of Babylon_."

"Ah."

Mulder took advantage of Walter's distraction to tug his shirt free  
of his jeans. He was about to slide it from his lover's shoulders, but  
thought better of it. He liked the way it framed the AD's chest. The jeans  
were a slightly more complicated affair, tight as they were. Somewhere  
along the way Walter had acquired a pair of button-flies, and as much as  
Mulder admired them most of the time, they were inconvenient to him now.  
There were so many better ways to spend his time...

Walter gripped the agent's head in both hands and kissed him hotly,  
working his lips and tongue, sucking on both. He moaned into Mulder's mouth,  
a moan of surrender, of supplication. He licked the agent's lips, stared  
briefly into his eyes, and kissed him again, gentler this time, switching  
angles. This was more the kiss he'd received in the hotel room, somewhere  
between wounding and worshipful. Mulder slipped Walter's jeans down his  
hips and stifled a smile. _No more protesting now..._

He sank to his knees before his lover, taking the jeans with him, yanking  
down Walter's briefs while he was at it. His cock danced before Mulder's  
face. The AD's eyes were glazed over, his hips thrusting lazily, waiting  
for the caress he knew would come. Mulder watched him, choosing his angle,  
and finally settled for a lick at the AD's balls. He made a show of it,  
a thrust and drag, from one end of them to the other, working them in their  
sac. Slowly he pushed Walter's legs apart as far as the jeans would permit,  
and moved in deeper, licking at the undersides. The AD was very accommodating.  
Walter rested his ass against the counter and slid his hips

forward, the drunk at the front counter completely forgotten in the  
face of this sensation. His hands sank into Mulder's hair. Mulder released  
him, then repeated the stroke of his tongue up the length of Walter's cock,  
slow, teasing, not quite hard enough. The pressure of Walter's hands increased.

"Don't be so greedy."

"Suck me. Please..."

"You're not going to make it. And I'm not done with you."

"_Please_."

Mulder took the head into his mouth, applying a gentle suction he knew  
was going to get him in trouble. He ran his tongue around it, keeping his  
hands firmly on Walter's hips to keep him under control. The AD tried to  
thrust, but Mulder knew him better than he did. And he had something specific  
in mind.

"You bastard," Walter gasped.

The agent took him a little further in. He was taking a risk now. He  
had to remove his hands in order to remove his shirt, but he knew Walter  
wasn't going to do it. His coordination wasn't much better than Mulder's  
at times like these. The agent stripped off his shirt and toed off his  
shoes.

At least _he_ had thought to wear a pair of easily removed slacks.  
He lifted first one leg, then the other, never faltering in his sucking.

_Nobody  
ever believes me when I tell them porn is educational_. When he was  
naked, he risked a look at his lover. Walter's hands gripped the counter  
tightly. His head was thrown back, his mouth slightly open, that beautiful  
neck exposed. _Enough is enough_.

Mulder let Walter slide out of his mouth and stood slowly, sensuously,  
rubbing his body against Walter's on the rise. The friction of furred skin  
against furred skin was almost his undoing. He licked Walter's chest, his  
throat, his mouth, thrusting his tongue deeply inside. Their cocks bumped  
together, and Walter seemed to be happy with that. His hands had left the  
counter to rock Mulder's hips more firmly against his own. Mulder tore  
away from him.

"Don't tell me you changed your mind."

The agent fumbled with his jacket and came up with his travel-ready  
bottle of Astroglide. "I _told_ you I don't carry Motion Lotion."  
He handed the bottle to Walter and hopped up on the Xerox machine, grinning  
happily.

The AD looked down at the bottle in his hand, then up at Mulder, absorbing  
the situation. He shook his head. "You are without a doubt the weirdest  
person I've ever met."

"This cart has wheels on it," he said, demonstrating. "You'd hardly  
have to move at all."

"What a relief." While Mulder waited, he bent and removed his shoes  
and socks, clearing the way for his pants and briefs to follow. Like Mulder,  
he apparently enjoyed the shirt. He left it on. He cast one final glance  
at the door, one at Mulder, and, sighing, flipped open the cap on the lubricant.

Mulder swung his legs over Walter's shoulders to supply the AD with  
the best access. He knew he was a slut, and that fact didn't trouble him  
even slightly. _Yes, if I'm going to get fucked on top of a Xerox machine  
in a XXX video store, I want Walter to be the man to do it_. He giggled.

Walter's hand left him immediately. "That's it. I'm going home."

"Walter, come on. What happened to your sense of humor? I was just--  
ah!" The AD slid two fingers into his ass, teasing at his prostate with  
the same evil pressure Mulder had applied to his lover's cock. He bucked.  
"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Make me a man, Walter," he said. Now he was laughing in earnest, and  
his lover's hand slid in and out with each convulsion.

"Cut it out."

"I can't," he gasped. He felt tears gathering in his eyes.

"Then do it quietly."

"I can't do anything quietly."

Walter's mouth captured his. His laughing abated slightly. The AD replaced  
his hand with the head of his cock and Mulder stopped laughing entirely.  
Slowly Walter thrust inside, strain outlining every muscle as he breathed  
harshly into Mulder's mouth. He pulled out, then thrust again.

Mulder rocked his hips experimentally. The copier cart slid.

"Well?" Walter asked.

"Oh, baby," Mulder moaned. "You love me so good." He collapsed into  
laughter again. His abdominal muscles were starting to ache.

With a growl, Walter thrust hard. The cart slammed against the wall.

He repeated the motion, gripping Mulder's cock as he did so, seemingly  
determined to draw something other than giggles from the agent. It was  
no mean task. Mulder bucked against him, pushing the cart forward, and  
Walter thrust back, sliding it back. They hadn't yet found their rhythm,  
but they were working on it.

"If only it was... on carpet..." Mulder gasped.

"Shut up." Walter thrust faster now, stroking Mulder's cock in counter-rhythm.

The agent had been craving exactly this for such a time that he could  
do little more than arch happily into each stroke, moaning almost continuously,  
not coherent enough even to say _yes_. Still the cart squeaked back  
and forth, but Walter had succeeded in ridding Mulder of his mirth. Pleasure  
streaked through his body, spiked in his extremities, pooled in his gut.  
He bucked frantically, his hips slamming against Walter's own, and then  
he was _there_, his muscles clamping down on his lover's cock, his  
skin so slippery with sweat that he nearly fell off the Xerox machine.  
He stopped breathing in that instant, his eyes rolling back.

Walter froze between his legs, moaning hoarsely as he came just as Mulder  
was finishing. The AD collapsed on top of him, his cock softened and slipping  
out, Mulder's legs hanging limply at his sides. He kissed the agent weakly.

"Hey," came a tentative voice from the other side of the door. "I gotta  
cash out."


End file.
